


Like puppets on strings

by Strudelmugel



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Edwardian Period, Multi, RMS Titanic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3436535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strudelmugel/pseuds/Strudelmugel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Red Doll.</p><p>In a desperate attempt to save his crumbling marriage, Peter books places for his entire family on the biggest, most luxurious ship in the world for a holiday in America. Whilst he frets about whether or not Charlotte still loves him, his brother Lars finally comes to terms with his growing affections for artist Franz Edelstein, opening up a whole new world of issues. Kuzey Adnan struggles to cope with the fact that he's fallen in love with a married woman, Cheng wishes his younger siblings would make his life easier, and married couple Niran and Kim-ly just want a fresh start. Not to mention the weird ghost-like boy who occasionally shows up on deck.</p><p>Then, on Sunday 14th April, their lives are shattered forever when disaster strikes, and Peter has to save his family from perishing in the icy Atlantic waters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Franz- Kugelmugel  
> Lars- Ladonia
> 
> …
> 
> Okay so I took this fic down a while back with the intention of editing it and putting it back up. I’ve changed some pretty major things, added new characters, researched even more, and generally attempted to improve the writing.  
> For those who don’t know, this is the sequel to my Sufin fic: Red Doll. It is set 24 years later, and follows Tino and Berwald’s two sons: Peter [Sealand] and Lars [Ladonia] along with Charlotte [Wy], Franz [Kugelmugel] and Kuzey [TRNC] as adults. The main pairings are SeaWy and LadKug, with side pairings of LatUkr, AmeBel, AusHun, and Thaiviet, along with some one-sided TRNCWy.

March 1912, Vienna

 

…

 

“That’s the last case,” concluded Franz Gottlieb Edelstein, tightening the straps on a battered, but expensive, trunk full of clothes. He hauled it over to the other two, also full of clothes, and placed his suitcase- filled with sketchpads, paints, brushes, pencils and a piece of canvas, just in case he saw inspiration for a masterpiece on his journey- on top, completing the neat pile.

He picked his wallet, papers, tickets and keys up off his desk and stuffed them into various trouser and jacket pockets. Everything seemed accounted for; there was no last minute search for hidden items like everyone assumed there would be; and Franz felt that the day was getting off to a good start. Of course, it would have been a smarter idea to pack the night before, but Franz was never one for staying focused on the boring things- like packing and often even getting dressed- for more than five seconds. Even this morning, when he could put it off no longer, it had taken every ounce of self control to not take a break every few minutes and Franz was feeling pretty pleased with himself. It would appear pampered rich boys were not entirely dependent on servants.

Nevertheless, he decided to leave the trunks for a member of staff to carry to the car, as they looked pretty heavy- too heavy for his delicate, spindly form- and Franz resolved to instead focus his attention on his appearance.

He was well known across Europe, and even far-off America, for being the son of the renowned Roderich Edelstein, as well as fame from his own artistic achievements, and it was important to look presentable so as not to tarnish his and his father’s reputations with sloppiness. The press would be sure to point out any errors in appearance, and had done before.

Checking in the full length mirror standing in the corner, Franz decided that everything was in order. His clothes, a ruffled shirt, tie, cream waistcoat and violet jacket with gold trimming were neat, if a little old fashioned due to his father’s insistence that Franz wears his old clothes to cut back on expenses, claiming that they were still in good condition. They made him seem interesting, so Franz didn’t care too much. His silvery hair, now down to his shoulder blades, was in a neat ponytail; apparently plaits weren’t sophisticated enough on a man above a certain age (or any age, really). He’d not cut his locks since that memorable night when he was ten and his mother’s ex fiancé tried to kidnap them both.

He cast his eyes around his room one last time, taking in the grand furnishings, like his luxurious four-poster bed, mahogany writing desk (well, drawing desk), matching wardrobe and rich violet carpet. He’d created the room to reflect his personality: eccentric and artistic, but at the same time, hoping to come off as majestic and ostentatious. Of course, to everyone else, that came across as a desperate excuse for him to be allowed to keep the room cluttered, messy and full of whatever weird crap he found in shops and market stalls. His shelves were filled with books, ornaments, a globe, black and white photographs and sculptures of his own creation. His desk was not much better, being covered in half-finished drawings and letters from Lars Oxenstierna, Peter Kirkland and the occasional fan.

The most recent letter, from Peter, sat neatly on top of the pile, detailing plans for the trip he was now about to embark on. They were all to travel to New York on the RMS Titanic, the grandest luxury liner in the world. He was excited about the prospect of travelling to America. This time it would be of his own free will and he’d be going with his friends, not being forced to at knife point, crying and screaming…

Pushing the memory out of his mind, Franz tightened the ponytail and brushed a loose hair off his jacket. His hair had grown back slightly curly at the tips, giving it more volume and, according to his friend Lars, making him look like some sort of 18th Century composer. But that was probably because of the clothes too, after all, his father was a pretentious composer.

Chuckling at the thought, Franz left the room, walking through the spacious, grand hallway and descending the stairs. The house appeared empty, but then again, it always did, being so large, yet home to only three people and their servants. The sky outside- visible through large windows either side of the front doors- was grey and full of drizzle, offering little in natural light and making the dwelling seem even more abandoned, not helped by the echoing sounds of Franz’s footsteps. The place hadn’t really changed since Franz was a child.

Sighing, he walked across the hall and opened one of the many wooden, ornately decorated doors.

Both of his parents were relaxing in the family room, a cosy little place made up of soft chairs and a warm fire; Roderich read from a newspaper, nestled snugly in an armchair whilst Elizabeta lay on the sofa reading a novel.

“Everything’s packed,” he informed them, “I’ve sent someone up to load the suitcases into the car. I guess there’s nothing left to do but bid farewell.”

“You’re going so soon?” asked Elizabeta, setting her book down on the coffee table and standing up to hug him.

“Hey now, Anya,” he whined, blushing from the affection, “I’ll only be gone for a month or two. And it’s a long drive to Calais, then a ship, and a train to Paddington! It’s best to go now, if I want to make it to London by April.”

“It’s still so long,” she retorted, “stay safe and be good.”

“I will,” he promised.

Roderich folded the paper and stood up, walking over to the pair and placing a hand on Elizabeta’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Eli,” he soothed, “he’ll be back before you know it! Franz is thirty-four and a grown man; he can go on holiday on his own!”

“I know,” Elizabeta sighed.

“Yeah, Anya!” added Franz, “I know I’m going to have a great time so you must too! How about you and Vatti go on a holiday of your own? I heard Milan is quite nice.”

“Not a bad idea,” agreed Elizabeta, “we really should spend our retirement years travelling more.”

“I’ll send you lots of postcards,” promised Franz, “and I’ll make sure they’re pretty ones too!”

“You will be back in time for your exhibition, right?” insisted Roderich.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” stressed Franz, “besides, that’s months away; I have plenty of time.”

Roderich gave a small smile, pulling his son into a hug, “we’re so proud of you; you know that, right?”

“Come on Vatti, I’m only going on a little holiday,” Franz rolled his eyes, “besides, I heard this trans-Atlantic liner was built to be ‘unsinkable’. So don’t worry about me.”

“We’re your parents,” cried Elizabeta, “it’s our job to worry, and we’ll worry even when we’re old and grey, and you have children of your own, which should be soon, young man. Why don’t we have grandchildren yet?”

“Erm…” Franz tried to think of how to avoid answering, but luckily his father stepped in.

“So do you have everything?’ asked Roderich.

“Ja.”

”Keys?”

”Ja.”

”Tickets?”

“Ja.”

“Passport?”

“It’s in my pocket.”

“All your clothes?”

“Vatti,” said Franz sternly, “I packed everything last night,” a teeny lie, “and I even made a checklist of what I needed to bring so I could tick it off as I packed,” okay, a massive lie. But Mr and Mrs Edelstein were stressed enough as it is without worrying about him forgetting something.

“Have fun with your friends,” said Elizabeta.

“Ah, Anya,” whined Franz, “I’m not a child!”

“But you are going to be spending time with you friends and having fun!”

“Ja, but…” Franz shook his head, “never mind. I’ll write to you when I reach Calais and tell you all about what I see. I’ll even keep a journal of my trip so you’ll be able to hear about everything I do and see.” He smiled brightly, “I have a feeling this will be a very inspiring journey. Who knows, maybe I’ll create enough art to fill another exhibition.”

“I don’t doubt that,” agreed Elizabeta.

They heard a beep from outside and Franz chuckled; “guess I should be off then.”

He said goodbye one final time, then walked outside to where a shiny black car was waiting, luggage in the boot and an impatient driver in the front. He jogged down the front steps and walked across the gravelly path, turning around before he reached the car to wave to his parents, then he opened the back door and sat down on the soft, leather seats.

“So, this is it,” he whispered in excitement, “I’m going to see Lars again.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay here's the next chapter. I hope I've put sufficient warning for character death because, well, it's pretty important that you remember that when reading this chapter.
> 
> …
> 
> Charlotte- Wy  
> Yekaterina- Ukraine  
> William- New Zealand  
> Oscar- Hutt River  
> Erikur- Iceland  
> Aleksander- Norway

1st April, London

 

…

 

Peter rubbed his eyes and sat up, yawning and stretching. He glanced over at Charlotte, who slept peacefully next to him, brunette hair scattered across her pillow, face half-shadowed in the dim, early-morning light that peeked in through the curtains of the tiny room Peter had lived in since he was a child, on the top floor of a tiny house on a busy street in London.

Peter sighed and got up. He quietly dressed into his trousers, shirt, waistcoat, shoes and jacket before completing the outfit with a bowler hat to show he was a man of business. Wandering downstairs into the kitchen, Peter found that he was the first person up. Collecting a plate of bread and cheese and pulling a small pile of papers from his jacket pocket, he sat down in one of the wooden chairs around the table to eat and read. The papers contained five tickets for him and Charlotte, their two children and his brother Lars, along with the details of their departure.

He hoped Charlotte liked the idea of this holiday; she’d always said she wanted to visit America sometime in her life and now they would all go as a family. He’d even managed to talk Raivis into getting tickets for him, Yekaterina and their baby; they’d even bought tickets for Yekaterina’s younger siblings, Ivan and Natalya, so they could come along as well, so now Charlotte could go on holiday with her entire family. This included her aging father, William, who was travelling around the vast country at the moment and would meet them in New York on the day of their arrival, as stated in a letter he’d sent several weeks ago. Heck, he’d even invited the eccentric artist Franz Edelstein as company for Lars since the pair were pretty close, in case he felt left out surrounded by families and couples. Unfortunately, Charlotte’s oldest brother, Oscar, had told them he wouldn’t be coming for a number of reasons, the main one being his tiring job. Apart from that, everything was going perfectly and Peter tried to feel happy about the whole thing, but couldn’t when he remembered just why he’d planned the whole thing in the first place.

He’d forgotten the last time he and Charlotte had showed any affection towards each other. They never even said they loved each other any more and Peter feared that was because they didn’t. Had they used up all their affection when they were young; becoming bored of each other’s company; or were their lives just far too ruled by work and sorrow and children for love and fondness anymore? Was Charlotte wishing she could just divorce him if it wasn’t so stigmatised? He feared she hated him. It was sometimes hard to tell with her. Maybe Peter could try fixing things by showing some affection himself, but he wanted to make a big gesture for her. And besides, they could all do with a holiday.

Where had all his affection gone? He wondered that a lot now. Stress, maybe. Life had certainly been hard on him lately.

He glanced down at the tickets on the table, his own name staring up at him: Peter Kirkland, second class. There it was, in writing, proof that he was going on the most luxurious, unsinkable ship in the world with everyone he loved. Well, almost everyone. Arthur was pretty jealous that his work kept him from getting a ticket for himself. And his uncles were needed to stay and run the shop.

He folded up the tickets and stuffed them into his pocket- lest any of the others find them- finished eating and wandered downstairs to open the shop, which had been his since his parents died two years ago. Peter had always dreamed of eventually taking over the business, but when the time came, he found it was the last thing he ever wanted. Right now he just yearned for his parents back...

The room where the toys were displayed always looked dark and uncared for since Tino died and no matter how hard they tried, how hard they cleaned and decorated, it was just not the happy, warm place anymore. It lost the magic Tino and Berwald gave it and just felt like a regular, boring little shop now.

No one had been too worried when Tino first got sick, despite his age. After all, the guy had always managed to bounce back from far worse things before. But he got sicker and sicker, barely able to speak without coughing, and Dr Wang was called late one night after Tino had collapsed in front of them.

No one could believe it when Dr Wang told them that Tino wouldn’t make it through the night.

After all the man had been through, Peter was starting to believe he could never die, but he did. Thankfully, it was peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by friends and family. He remembered Lars clinging to him as they sat on the edge of Tino’s bed, burying his face in his brother’s shirt in a rare display of emotion whilst Berwald just held Tino’s motionless hand, eyes full of silent pleading, but it made no difference.

Berwald died only months later.

Of a broken heart, they’d told everyone. It seemed fitting; the pair had been close. Even if the direct family were the only ones who’d known how close they really were, no one doubted the strength of their friendship or how much they had relied on each other throughout the years. No one suspected what they also were to each other, or that there was any other cause for Berwald’s death and Peter and Lars were happy to keep it that way.

After all, what Berwald had done meant he shouldn’t have been allowed a burial in a proper graveyard, and Peter knew he would want to be next to Tino forever, which was probably what made him commit the ultimate sin in the first place.

Peter still felt an overwhelming surge of anger over what his father had done. Sympathy, too, of course, but he couldn’t help but think of how it was those left behind who had to deal with the consequences and he just couldn’t bring himself to forgive his father completely. Not yet. After all, Peter was now living with the memory of finding his father: dead with a bottle of poison in his hands, of shaking him by the shoulders, screaming and begging, hoping it wasn’t too late to save him, even though he was long gone by then.

He missed his parents more than anything, and hoped at the very least they were at peace.

At least Berwald had lived long enough to see Peter and Charlotte name their second child after Tino. He’d been happy about that, definitely, doting on his baby grandchild up until his death. Just as he had with their eldest child, Jemima- named after Charlotte’s mother, one of the victims of what was now called the worker’s murders that happened nearly 24 years ago.

Peter pushed those memories out of his head, not wanting to think about watching his Uncle Mathias die on the floor of their shop; Jemima’s funeral; or how Tino was left fighting for his life at the end of it all. Instead, he opened the front door and began sweeping the doorstep, something he’d done since he was a child and gave him security; plus, it allowed his mind to wander.

At least Tino and Berwald managed to have twenty two happy years together. They’d even travelled as a family to Sweden to meet Berwald’s parents, who’d been both surprised and overjoyed at how big Lars had grown, seeing as the last time they’d seen him he was a tiny, screaming baby, and even treated Peter as another grandchild, for which he was grateful. Berwald’s parents loved hearing stories of what their son and Tino had done and how they’d become successful against all odds. They also asked about Aleks and Erikur, but avoided mentioning Mathias in case it upset them. They’d thought Tino and Berwald’s relationship was rather odd, but didn’t comment on it, and most likely didn’t realise what their relationship really was.

The four of them had even gone to Finland to track down any extended family of Tino’s, and found out his father had a younger brother, who was so relieved that one member of his family had survived the fire that took Tino’s father and siblings that he didn’t even question Berwald, Peter and Lars’ presence, accepting them as family and filling in any questions Tino had about his parents and siblings. Tino’s uncle had a family of his own, and Peter and Lars were able to play with cousins for the entire trip.

Peter tidied the shelves in the window and wondered when Aleks would turn up. They were coming from Bristol- where a sister-shop had been set up- to look after the place while he was away. Peter had told him not to worry, that he’d already called in his brother Arthur from Liverpool, but he insisted. He wondered why, but guessed it was because he and Erikur just never visited anymore, not since Berwald’s funeral. Besides, they had lives and a business to run.

Peter hoped Erikur wouldn’t be too swamped on his own in the shop. Still, the man loved the place, happy to have a shop of his own. Or one that he shared with his brother anyway.

Peter wished the tenth of April, the day of boarding, would hurry up. Still, there was a lot to do: packing, getting the boat train to Southampton, and actually telling everyone about it. The only members of the party who actually knew that they were going were him, Raivis and Franz. He’d wanted to make it a nice surprise for Charlotte, Lars and the children.

He could almost picture their faces when they found out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Anya is Hungarian for mother; I didn’t feel comfortable having Kugel call Elizabeta ‘Mutti’ all the time.


End file.
